


Must be that Magic Touch

by Lady_Talla_Doe



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: M/M, Non-Consensual, Sex Pollen, witches made them do it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 11:35:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1031242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Talla_Doe/pseuds/Lady_Talla_Doe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>literally a run of the mill magic-sex-pollen-aliens-made-them-do-it-pick-your-excuse-dub-con porn fest fiction.<br/>Where Death does Ichabod in the forest and Ichabod really, really likes it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Must be that Magic Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Commission work which is the only reason why this is going up before Water in the Blood  
> why anyone would want to pay me MONEY to write pron in beyond me, but hey, MONEY right? AHAHAH I AM SO SORRY THIS EXISTS. AAAAHHH I KNOW I WILL REGRET THIS.

He hit the ground with a grunt. Ichabod rolled onto his stomach, crawling through the dying blaze of October leaves. He felt the stems of them catch in his hair, tugging it out of its messy ponytail – or making it messier, it was hard to tell, but there was dirt beneath his nails, grinding into his hands and he felt sick with the force of his own heartbeat. Despite it all, he wasn’t afraid, not yet. But he recognised the curse, had understood the words even if his adversary had not, and so Ichabod had fled. He’d ran like a wounded steer, until he was winded and limping, and when he’d tripped one too many times, he’d dragged himself along the ground. Ever away, just blindly fleeing now.

Her words echoed in his mind, bringing with it renewed pangs of panic.

_Anger to lust. Vengeance to passion._

 A twisted mockery of a love spell, one that Ichabod himself had managed to evade, but had caught the Horseman full in the chest. It had been a frozen moment of surprise, then Crane had felt the change in the air. Felt the heat of the Horseman’s eyeless gaze. Logically, he’d known then that fleeing would only remove him from the eyes of his fellows, take this act away from where others might witness it; the spell would rub off on him, at least in part, enough that once Death had his hands on him, Ichabod would stop fighting. Maybe that was why he had fled so far.

His legs hurt, feet bleeding within his boots from blisters long popped; his hands shook as he rested them against the damp bark of a pale sided birch.

“Please,” He held up a shaking hand, forestalling his companion’s touch. “A moment. Just... just allow me a moment.” They didn’t have a moment. He’d been too close to the spell; already the Horseman’s presence sent a buzz through his blood, a hum that was undeniable. The inhuman man had caught a full spell direct to the chest – the restraint he was displaying, under the circumstances was admirable. Were anyone else in his place, Ichabod had no doubt they’d both had been naked (or as close to it as they had patience for) the second he’d laid eyes on him.

But the Horseman allowed him his moment, stepping back one perfect, measured step, and considered Ichabod. The man shivered, unnerved, and closed his eyes, trying to block out the sensation of eyes sliding across his body from where there were clearly no eyes.

“You spend so much time denying silly things.” The voice would have startled him, if his ears hadn’t been half starved for it. Crane clung to the birch, looking up through his tangled bangs to stare up at the milky white eyes of Death.

“We have your skull.” He stated simply.

“Yes.” Death answered amicably, seeming visibly unaffected by the spell as he crossed his legs at the ankle and leaned against an old maple across from Ichabod.

“Explain.”

“The witch had a body, but no bones. I don’t need a skull to have a head; that’s just shock value. I don’t want to shock you, Ichabod.” His gaze darkened, and there was no way to misread the arousal that dropped his voice, “Not like that.” The Horseman gazed at him with the same fixed intensity of any predator. There was still enough distance between them for fear to spring up in Ichabod’s heart, making it beat hard against his ribs.

The predatory looked softened, and the Horseman took two steps towards him, faltering when Crane hissed at him. He regarded the man with no little amount of curiosity. “I don’t do this out of desire, Ichabod. I understand that I have been spelled. You and I, we shall remain enemies. We shall treat this like a battle, with both of us coming to a stalemate, a draw.” He held out a hand- the hand with the scar, face deathly serious.

“I was a savage man in life, and I am a savage man in death. But there are lines I believe I shall never cross, and if we do so, then I will have your participation. Give yourself to the spell, Ichabod Crane, and know that when it ends you will be allowed to leave and be granted three days grace to gather yourself.” Death wiggled his fingers at Ichabod. After a moment, the Englishman cursed softly, and reached out, grasping his calloused hand and letting the taller man pull him to his feet. The spell was setting in quickly, setting in like ruby fire in his blood; his heart rate spiked, breath quickening despite his resting stance. Sweat broke out across his back, his eyes ached, and his joints ached. He had the overwhelming urge to lean into Death, to seek the simple comfort of his presence, and that should have alarmed him but it just didn’t. He was too far gone with the spell, and before he realised his actions Ichabod was leaning into Death’s broad chest with a cut off groan of misery, an ice pick settling in behind his ear and the only thing that seemed to sooth it was the weight of the Horseman’s arms resting around his shoulders, the faint heat of a hand smoothing across the back of his neck. It was strange because he had this strange feeling like they were supposed to be doing this but he couldn’t remember why, or when they hadn’t, or anything outside of the pain in his skull.

Lips pressed to his temple, and Ichabod leaned into the contact with a bit off groan, relief spreading like cold water from the point. “Keep doing that,” He mumbled, curling his fingers around the horseman’s clothed forearms. But the skin-to-skin contact seemed necessary; his joints continued to ache, seeming aggravated by the contact rather than soothed.

“Bare skin. I need bare skin,” He was already ahead of himself, tugging at his sleeves, plucking impatiently at the lace cuffs and buttons to expose his wrists and forearms. Ichabod wrapped his fingers tightly around the newly bared skin, sighing at the relief.

The horseman licked his lips, studying him; the way his lashes swept across his cheeks as his eyes closed, lips parting as the lines of pain eased from his face.

“You need this?” He reversed their hands, tangling his fingers with Ichabod’s, and scooped him closer when the Englishman nodded, sliding his free arm under his rather worse-for-wear uniform coat. His shirt was tucked into his pants, but the pants themselves were held up with tight laces and no belt, so Death simply tugged the shirt free of his pants, and the garment loosened enough to slide several inches down. Loose enough to slide his hand into it, if he wished – and he did, he truly did, but for the moment he smoothed his palm up the curve of Ichabod’s spine, leaning the man into him. It was all the spell, he realized this even as he let out a noise rather like a growl, appreciating the easy responsiveness of the man – it was all a spell, his veins would burn with anger come moonrise tomorrow.

But for this very moment he found himself pushing Ichabod down into the dry leaves, burying cold fingers in his knotted hair and kissing him hard, until they both gasped for breath and Death’s mouth ached. Kissing him softly after that, reverently, down his throat, while he swore and begged; shushing him by hooking a thumb between his lips and nearly going out of his mind when Ichabod bit him. _Spell, it’s a spell, think_. The faster it was dealt with, the easier it would be on both of them. But there was a growing urge to draw it out, to do things like pull the ties of his shirt apart with his teeth. Death tugged them apart quickly with his fingers before he could give into that urge, smoothing a hand down Ichabod’s chest, and didn’t bother to pretend that his shudder of relief didn’t have an effect on him. Death himself was impossibly aroused by Crane’s distressed pleasure, finding himself delaying the relieving touches by several long seconds every time just to watch him squirm.

“Don’t toy with me, monster,” Crane growled, impatient hands pulling Death’s jacket down his shoulders. “You know what I need. I’d damn you to hell for this torment, but you’ve already been and returned.”

The horseman snorted, and shucked his jacket and shirt in quick, economical movements. “Too right you are. Although, Mr. Crane, if you are implying that being with you is hellish or punishment, I would like to correct you. A little demanding, but otherwise quite pleasant. I’m going to bite you,” He warned, a moment before he leaned down, and sank his teeth – really sank them, deep and hard- into Ichabod’s shoulder. He waited for the scream that never came, and after a moment he realised that his only reaction seemed to be the hardness resting against his hip. Chuckling, Death licked at the deep, free bleeding mark. Crane had his hands knotted in fabric of Death’s uniform slacks, keeping their hips wedged together, and for all it was worth it went against his desires. So rather then ask, Death simply ripped Ichabod’s hands roughly off his person, moving them above his head, and pinning them with one hand. He pulled Ichabod’s leg over his own, turning the mortal onto his stomach, an ground into his ass with a groan of appreciation.

“I think we’ll both be happier for this later,” He whispered into his hair, fingers locked around Ichabod’s wrists. The human’s heat sank into him, and for a time he felt mortal, like he had a heartbeat, a soul. Roughly, the Horseman tugged Crane’s slacks down his thighs. He had two vials of oil on his person; gun oil, and leather oil, and frankly he trusted the leather oil more. So he scrapped his red jacket closer, fumbling in the belt for the small vial. It’s cork came off easily enough in his teeth.

For all that the spell had hit him, it seemed to have the worse effect on Ichabod. Perhaps because it was meant for a human, and had transferred for the most part to him; meant to be shared between two people, now the mortal was being overwhelmed by the better part of the two halves. But if that was the case, the Death had no excuse for his actions.

Rather than think on that, he pressed the vials straight into Ichabod, pouring half the contents directly into the man. Then without pause he pressed a finger in, thrusting impatiently in the slick glide. There was conflicting urges again- take his time and make him come apart, squirm until he cried, but he also wanted to take him rough and honestly make him cry. Mark him up so he’d feel it for different reasons. His blood was already dripping down his pale skin, landing on leaves beneath them, drops of crimson setting off the fires of orange. It was strangely beautiful. So Death thrust a second finger inside his enemy, just to watch him squirm- and Ichabod let out a choked, broken noise, but it wasn’t one of pain, and from there it was all Death could do to keep from falling on him, taking the man roughly, unprepared in the dirt. A third finger, and by the forth Ichabod was yelling at him, caught hands curled into fists, nails dragging furrows into the soil.

“Enough, God, enough, enough, stop this torture, _take me!_ ” the mortal’s horse voice broke on the last worse, cracking, and who was Death to resist? He couldn’t. Tugging himself out of his slacks, the horseman took barely a moment to pour the remaining oil over his erection, then lined the head up with Ichabod’s twitching opening. In a moment between breathes, he thrust in, half in one thrust, the rest in the next, then stopped. Waited. Let the mortal shake apart underneath him as his body adjusted to the sudden intrusion.  

Death was patient. By the definition of his existence, he was patient. So he settled his nose behind Ichabod’s left ear, and soaked in his warmth as he gasped and swore, and shuddered, and shook, and when his legs showed signs of weakness, Death shifted them back so he was sitting on his heels, the mortal spread over his lap.

His cock pressed deeper into Ichabod, and Death decided he liked his better. Huffing softly, the Horseman rested a hand on his abdomen, stroking his thumb over the bottom of his ribcage. “A few moments more.” He told a lie right then, because already he was thrusting slowly, just small movements, but it was like an itch. Once you started to scratch it, you couldn’t just stop. And so he ended up grabbing Ichabod’s hips, abandoning his grasp on his wrists, and thrusting hard into his willing body. Using him relentlessly until Ichabod stiffened with a cry, his body tightening unbearably around Death, and Death found himself spilling into man.

They both hovered in that frozen moment of bliss, breath coming hard, Ichabod’s hard beading so hard Death could feel it through the back of his ribs. He smoothed a hand down the front of his chest, easing the human to lean back against him, until Ichabod rested totally against him, limp and exhausted. Their noses touched as the mortal let his head lull to the side.

Death hesitated, the pressed a kiss to his parted lips.

“Get some rest.” It was a long time until sunrise. It would give him time to think over all the thoughts clambering around his skull. A necessity, now, looking at Ichabod. Something had changed. Death was fairly sure he knew what. But, on the off chance; he needed to think on this.


End file.
